In the Unlike Event of Having Defied Death
by Majestika
Summary: Harry Potter and Artemis Fowl have made the awful mistake of outliving their due-dates. Now they must work with each other to gather the Deathly Hallows, and regain their right to die. Of course, such a thing won't be easy, with a war between the People, the Muggles, and wizarding kind... Cussing, blood, etc. Eventual slash, y'alls been warned. Moved here from PlutoPoltergeist.
1. The Abduction

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Harry Potter or Artemis Fowl. Harry Potter is property of J.K. Rowling. Artemis Fowl is property of Eoin Colfer. I make no profit off this fan fiction, nor do I claim to hold rights to either Harry Potter or Artemis Fowl. No copyright infringement is intended, please support the official release.

**A.N./ The time periods have been messed with to match up. It all takes place in Artemis Fowl's time.**

**In The Unlikely Event of Having Defied Death**

**Chapter One**

**The Fowl Estate**

It was most exquisite_, _the land the Fowls owned. The grounds were covered with cleverly tamed grass, cut and cared for in a way that it looked rather _un_tamed. Behind the house was a series of rolling hills, to the east a cliff, and several acres of land. 'Wild' flowers grew everywhere, in nearly every pleasing color on the spectrum, and in many different species and sizes. Over the past two years, natural paths had been formed by the youngest of the Fowl family, Myles and Beckett, from frequent and enthusiastic adventuring, playing, and experimenting. These paths of trampled grass and pitiful flowers had been modified by the gardeners to look not only intentional, but as if those paths had been there since the manor was erected.

It was on these dirt paths, lined with flowers and small round stones, that Artemis the second and Angeline Fowl strode. To someone simply passing by, they'd look like young lovers. Artemis stood an inch or so taller than Angeline. Angeline herself held his hand. They chatted casually, a thing that was indeed rare and precious, and there was certainly no denying love between them. They even had the looks of a young couple – Artemis with dark hair and piercing blue eyes, and Angeline with her long golden mane and soft eyes...

But they were not lovers, not at all. A closer look would prove to show that Angeline was _much _older than Artemis, as told by the slight crows feet around her eyes and the nearly unnoticeable gray hairs and roots. They were, in fact, mother and son.

Typically, Artemis would not have gone on such a casual walk with his mother. He loved her dearly, but she was just so _emotional. _Angeline just wanted so badly for Artemis to be 'normal' for his age, and Artemis harbored no desire for fleece jackets, piercings in odd places, and trainers. He much preferred his suits and loafers, his hair slicked back, and a meeting to attend which he himself had made mandatory. However, today was no typical day. Angeline was heart-set on spending as much time with her son as she could, regardless of whether or not he wore the _Metallica_ t-shirt she'd bought him.

Because not two weeks ago, Artemis had been dead.

Angeline had seen his body, seen the last moment of serene resignation on his face, frozen there. She'd held his hand, felt how stone cold it was. She could remember well – his features, normally spotless and busy, smeared with sweat, dirt, and she dared say _blood, _and so empty. Yes, his facial muscles were frozen still, capturing his final emotions, but there was no life there. Her son had been dead. She'd attended the funeral, seen him buried...

Then, one day, quite unexpectedly, he was alive again. Sitting at the breakfast table, bidding his family a good day, enjoying his morning meal. Angeline had been equal parts horrified and ecstatic. On the one hand, Artemis was supposed to be _dead. _He was not of this world. She had seen his corpse lowered into his grave, had confirmed that the body was that of her son, had _cried _for his loss... And there he was. Sitting, willy-nilly, as if he'd only been on another one of his ridiculous business meetings for the past few months. On the other, she had him back.

She had him back, and had no intention of going about his return as casually as Artemis had.

And to make sure his return was not taken casually, Angeline Fowl was going to make sure they did as many casual things as possible.

Take, for instance, a pointless walk around the property and a lighthearted discussion about Darwinism, and the plausibility of an afterlife or greater being.

"No, Mother, we've been over this," Artemis was saying, gesturing slightly with his unoccupied hand as he spoke. "Humans and apes are _cousins, _at the closest. We are not directly evolved from them, we simply share a common ancestor..."

And so, Artemis went on to explain Darwin's theory of evolution to his thoroughly confused mother for a fifth time.

They'd been walking for an hour now, and were quite a ways away from the manor. Angeline noted that they were beginning to reach the outskirts of the property. One could tell by the dense greenery they were nearing – tall, thick trees with fat trunks and several small woodland rodents living in them. The grass out here was actually untamed, not just ingeniously tamed by talented gardeners, and the natural-path-turned-lawn-decoration had been swallowed by natural plant life. Still beautiful, but with many more bugs.

"Ugh, trees," Artemis said.

Angeline frowned. "Artemis, do you have an unexplained personal grudge against trees as well as lollipops?" Angeline asked warily. She had yet to get to the bottom of his agenda against sweets; Figuring out another one, against _trees, _would just complicate her life further. _My goodness, _Angeline thought suddenly. _I need to learn how to knit or something._

Artemis shook his head. "No, no, Mother. It's just that Butler would rather bite his own fingers off than allow me tear _trees, _especially such sturdy ones as these," Artemis said. Seeing his mother was still baffled, Artemis added, "Snipers." Angeline nodded in sudden understanding. Knitting could wait, it seemed.

"We should head back," Angeline said. "I think Butler will bite _my _fingers off, letting you stray so far from home..."

Artemis gave a soft snort of laughter. Angeline didn't hear Artemis laugh often – why on earth did he have to be _uptight _all the time? - so the noise was like finding a bag of chocolates that she was previously unaware of.

They turned around and began making their merry way back to Fowl Manor. Angeline saw a warm mug of cocoa and more leisurely chatting in the near future. Artemis saw another two hours spent being sentimental with his mother and trying to explain the basics of genetics and ecology to someone who just wanted to talk about marshmallows and kittens. Over a mug of cocoa, of course. He was hardly going to complain.

However, neither would get their cocoa or leisurely chat any time soon.

A loud sound, a bit like a firework going off, but much sharper and not bringing out quite the sense of celebration, rang out. With it, Angeline felt a sharp, throbbing pain in her back, between her ribs, into her lung. The force knocked her over. Her face slammed into the untamed grass, nose digging into the dirt.

"Mother!"

It was Artemis's voice. Angeline opened her mouth to asked, panicked, what had happened, but, with a painful cough, hot blood spilled from her mouth. It was difficult to breathe – her vision was clouding over – _God, _it hurt so badly...

All the while, Artemis stood, dumbfounded, at his mother's dying form. She'd been shot – Artemis knew that much – and he was pretty sure he knew where from. The trees. But that didn't help that _his mother was now dying. _Artemis looked around wildly. For what, he knew not. But _something _that would give the gears in his head a much-needed push. His mother had been shot. Okay, now what? Artemis squatted beside her, too scared to turn her over, and located the bullet hole.

He was pretty sure he had read how to take care of a bullet wound before, but any and all knowledge of such information was impossible to grasp. Knowing full well it wouldn't help, that his mother was beyond saving, Artemis tried pushing his fingers into the wound. Something in his frantic mind told him to just pull the slug out. That would work, right?

It didn't.

Angeline Fowl was dead. Drowned in her own blood. Artemis, having forgotten the sniper in his panic to _do something, _stared dumbly down at her. His hands were soaked in the blood of his mother. His hands, which now shook uncontrollably.

"Artemis Fowl!" a heavily accented voice called out. Male. About thirty. British? No, definitely American. Why did _that _part of Artemis's brain still function, but the part that could have at least extended Angeline's life didn't...? "This is for ruining Jon Spiro, you dumb devil man-whore!"

Artemis turned around, just in time for the mystery sniper to fire again. Unimaginable pain exploded in Artemis's skull, radiating from the center of his forehead. _Quite _a skilled marksman, this Spiro-fanatic. But still Artemis's killer, and Artemis found that he couldn't forgive this assassin for killing his mother, and Artemis himself.

Speaking of killing Artemis, why was he not dead yet?

The force had knocked him backward, causing his body to sprawl awkwardly beside his dead mother. He could _feel _the metal slug near the center of his brain, along with the head-splitting pain that accompanied it. It was like an awful headache, only a million times worse. Artemis felt blood spurting from the bullet wound, rolling down his face and getting caught in his hair line. His vision was cloudy.

He'd been shot in the forehead. He should have died almost instantly?

Artemis didn't have a lot of time to think about that. Finally, his vision had gone dark, and he knew nothing. As per what should have happened not two seconds after taking a bullet in the brain.

**Grimmauld Place**

Harry had had a stressful day.

Auror training was not simply kicking his ass, but also rubbing his face in the dirt as his ass was fucked repeatedly by the foot of Auror training, which was only supposed to kick his ass but had always been an overachiever. Harry had no doubt that he was going to have a spectrum of bruises in odd places for weeks after that day, and his joints and muscles would be sore for months. His trainer, a bald, middle-aged German wizard who simply oozed testosterone, ordered him not to ease his aches and pains by magic.

"No pain, no gain, pansy!" his trainer had boomed in Harry's face when asked why he could not have an easier life. The scent of his breath would haunt Harry until his death day. Possibly a bit afterword as well, because it was entirely possible Harry may elect to become a ghost after his death.

So, though it was barely after lunchtime, Harry was eager for a hot bath and a lengthy nap. The bath, of course, went spectacularly. With all colors of odd bubbles, hot water, and soap that _may _have been filled with a soothing potion during its creation, the bath had been the most relaxing moment Harry had experienced in a while.

The nap had also been amazing. Deep, dreamless sleep, sandwiched between a squishy yet firm mattress and thick, warm blankets... For Harry's still-aching body and mentally exhausted mind, it was heaven.

If only it had not been interrupted so... so _rudely._

Harry was in a half-sleeping, half-awake state. He was vaguely aware of the drool pooling up around his mouth. Oh well. Something brushed against his ear.

Harry's human instincts told him to jolt awake and curse living daylights out of whoever dared disturb his much-needed rest. However, he'd just come home from ass-kicking Auror training, and he heard his trainers loud, barking words ring in the back of his mind: "_A cool head is the only thing standing between you, and your gruesome, long, and painful death!" _Harry, miraculously, managed to keep his breathing under control. Breathe in, breathe out.

Whilst doing this, Harry tried to focus on what was touching his ear. Eventually, he came to the conclusion that it was a wand. Why anyone would want to curse him in his sleep, Harry knew not. But he did know, more or less, what he planned on doing about it. Discreetly as possible, Harry stuffed his hand down his pajama pants and clutched his phoenix-feather wand. Down ones pants was a queer place for a wizard to keep his wand, but Harry had learned from his trainer that no wizard, _ever, _checked down the front of their prisoners pants for their wand.

"I know you're awake." The voice was youthful, and male. Harry guessed about twenty. He kept his eyes closed and his breathing even. "So you're the famous Harry Potter, eh? Boy-Who-Lived, Chosen One, the Fourth Champion... Quite a title-holder, aren't you?" As he spoke, Harry heard his voice go slightly unsteady, as if he were biting back tears. Or rage. Or, perhaps, both.

"You killed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Just a few months ago, too. At seventeen. I know you'll be eighteen soon – so how's it feel to achieve something so great so young? I bet it feels wonderful. I bet you're _so damn proud _of yourself, eh, Potter?"

Harry dared let himself answer. If it were about anything else, he probably would have just let him rattle on, but this was Voldemort they were talking about. "Relieved, more like."

Harry felt the wand move across his face, pushing his fringe out of the way and tracing his lightening bolt scar. "Relieved? Relieved that you've damned wizarding kind to extinction?" He sounded very much like he was about to cry now. Ah, a Voldemort enthusiast. Just what Harry needed.

"The wizarding world would have gone extinct _years_ ago, if we hadn't bred with Muggles," Harry said, passively as he pleased. He needed to stay relaxed around this guy, whoever he was. He didn't fancy being cursed half to death because he lost his temper with a short-sighted enthusiast of the Dark Arts. "Pureblood wizards can't be bothered to get knocked up more than twice. Unless you're ginger, of course, but than you're a blood-traitor and a few galleons away from being homeless."

The stranger let out a small scoff of laughter at Harry's Weasley joke. "Perhaps. But at least we would have gone extinct with respectable bloodlines, instead of going extinct with all this _filth _pumping through our veins, and probably dying by Muggle means," he said bitterly. Harry felt the wand leave his face. "One of these days soon – I can feel it. Some Mud-Blood's going to blab, and than we're all going to be stabbed and burnt to death. It'll be the dark ages all over again, but worse because of Muggle advancements."

"Well," Harry said, flatly, "I'm sorry you feel that way. By the way, what's your name? It feels silly, you knowing mine, and me not knowing yours."

There was a moment of silence. "I'm... Wallis. Wallis Elroy."

"Good to meet you, Elroy," said Harry kindly. "What do you plan on doing with that wand there?"

Harry felt his temple being tapped by the aforementioned wand. "Harry Potter, I intend to hex the shit out of you, teach you a lesson, maybe kill you," Wallis Elroy said. He spoke passively, but Harry detected a shudder in his voice. Whoever Wallis was, Harry doubted he was a true killer. Or, perhaps, Wallis was simply eager to kill him. Somehow, that seemed more plausible. Harry sighed deeply. He had no choice than.

"Be fair, would you, and hand me my glasses? You wouldn't want to tell your friends that you only beat Harry Potter when it was dark, and he couldn't see two inches in front of his face?" Harry asked reasonably.

"Where are they?"

"Bedside table, next to the oil lamp. Oh, turn that on while you're at it, yeah?" Harry answered. He he heard Wallis fumble with the cluttered bedside table, and Harry felt glasses being pushed onto his face not a moment later. He opened his eyes just in time for the room to be dimly illuminated by the oil lamp.

Wallis wasn't terribly tall. He wore a black cloak with the hood pulled over his face, and in the light provided by the lamp, Harry could see only his chin. Wallis Elroy had a short, scruffy, and sad excuse for a beard. Harry felt a surge of pity.

"Well, this is it. Wallis Elroy versus the great Harry Potter," said Wallis. Harry noted how his lip trembled. Was he a killer, eager to draw blood? Or the exact opposite? Harry didn't have a lot of time to ponder that. For not a second later, Elroy had his wand pointed at Harry and screamed, "_Bombarda!"_

Harry jumped out of the way just before his mattress exploded. As he landed, he pulled his wand out of his pajama bottoms and shouted, "_Petrificus Totalus! Avis! Conjunctivitis!" _The first two missed, Wallis having narrowly dodged them. But _Conjunctivitis _hit home. Not that it had much of an effect – damaged eyesight wouldn't do much for Harry, as the bedroom wasn't overly large and his pajamas were lime green anyway, so he stood out against his mottled brown, gray, gold and scarlet bedroom.

"_Aguamenti!" _called Wallis.

"_Impervius!" _Harry cast on his pajamas. The water pushed him back a bit, but his clothes were fine. "Really?" Harry asked. "_Aguamenti? _In a duel? What are you, five?"

Despite his hood, Harry could see Wallis Elroy blush. "_Orchidious! Oppundo!" _Colorful flowers burst from Wallis's wand and zoomed at Harry, with every intent of maiming.

"_Finite Incantatum!"_ Harry bellowed. Wallis's flowers caught flame and burnt to ash before reaching Harry. However, his feet did get hit with the piping hot remains and he danced back, knocking over a hatstand Harry had for, well, no real reason, actually.

Wallis raised his wand to cast another spell, but Harry had grown bored with this duel.

"_Rictu-"_

"_Expelliarmus!" _Wallis's wand popped out of his hand, landing on the floor and rolling to the foot of Harry's bed. Wallis looked from his wand to Harry. Wand, Harry. Wand...

"Go for it, I dare you," growled Harry. "Let's see where that get's you. I warn you, I'm a devil with the _Densaugeo _spell. I mean, your skull is only so big, with only so much room for teeth..." Wallis froze, staring at Harry like a deer caught in headlights. Harry smirked. "That's what I thought, Elroy." Harry made his way across the room. His plan was to conjure some ropes to tie Elroy up and summon _actual _Aurors to take him away.

Of course, things are never quite so simple. Harry was just recalling the spell when he was hit in the side of the head with something. That something was his bedside oil lamp, used with malicious intent by Wallis Elroy. The sheer force of the blow caused Harry's vision to go spotty, and made him spin 'round and stumble back. He dropped his wand and landed on his ass, still dazed by the blow to the head. Harry blinked, trying to focus his eyesight, and saw Wallis bending over to pick up his wand.

"So long as you're alive, magical life is at risk," Wallis said sadly, staring down at Harry. "It's been fine knowing you, Harry Potter. In another world, I feel like we could have been good friends." Wallis aimed his wand at Harry. "_Avada Kedavra."_

There was a wild flash of green light, which hit Harry with enough force to send him sprawling backward. He hit his desk by the door, knocking quills, parchment, and a sizable stack of books tumbling.

Though Harry was unconcerned with the state of his desk contents, so it didn't bother him. What really concerned him was that he was _still alive._ He could still see. And what he saw was Wallis Elroy approaching him.

"Damn waste," he sighed. Wallis kicked Harry in the side of the head, and the Boy-Who-Lived blacked out.

**The Fowl Estate**

Artemis woke suddenly, yet... peacefully, somehow. One moment, he was held close by the mindless release of unconsciousness, and the next, he was fully awake. He didn't start awake, nor was he forced out of it. It was as if Artemis was simply through with rest. He opened his eyes, squinting against the sunlight.

Sunlight? When did he, Artemis Fowl the second, fall asleep _outdoors? _His skin could be damaged by the sun, not to mention all the other awful things caused by UV rays. Cancer, primarily. He burned far too easily to dare spend more than an hour outside at a time. As Artemis's eyes adjusted, he noticed it was twilight. He groaned softly as he sat up.

Really, what the devil was he thinking, going outside and taking a- Artemis stopped suddenly, his brow furrowing as his speedy mind pieced together recent events. Artemis closed his eyes, not really wanting to believe it. But alas, he was grounded too deeply into reality to convince himself it'd been a dream. Despite his better judgment, Artemis forced his eyes open and turned his gaze to his left.

Angeline's dead form. Artemis's lip trembled, and before he really knew what was happening, he was bent forward and retching into his lap. Artemis fell onto his side, staring at his mother's blonde head.

Angeline Fowl was dead. Oh Frond, why did he ever agree to this ridiculous _walk? _He didn't walk, not unless he had to! He was pretty sure Angeline didn't, either. If he hadn't went on this walk with her, Angeline would never have died and neither would-

Artemis's bloodied, bile-covered hand shot up to feel his forehead. Besides the dried blood, his forehead was as smooth as it had always been – save for that one awkward week a few years back, when he had sprouted that _revolting_ _pimple _over his right eyebrow – and this confused him almost as much as the memory of being shot.

Even if that _had _happened, shouldn't there be a mark? Some evidence of having been _shot in the face?_

Artemis stared at Angeline's head. What was there to do? He had his fairy-communicator ring. He could contact Holly or Foaly and get help, right? But having a slug planted in ones skull and miraculously surviving wasn't really their department. Artemis took a shuddering breath. No matter what he could do, or why he somehow managed to survive, he had to tell the rest of his family about Angeline's death.

It took nearly all Artemis's strength to stand, and even then he stumbled and nearly fell several times. Artemis eyed Angeline and resisted the urge to vomit again. There was no way he, Artemis Fowl, with his normal lack of physical deftness, coupled with his current severe lack of energy, could drag her cadaver back to the manor. Someone would have to be sent back for her later. The thought sickened him, but what was there to do?

Slowly, Artemis made his way back to the manor. The paths, the flowers, and the expertly tended grass didn't seem nearly as impressive now. Several times Artemis's stamina suddenly dipped and he fell to the ground and he simply _had _to close his eyes for a moment. Needless to say, it was well after dark by the time Artemis returned to the manor.

Artemis was distraught to find that the door was locked. A quick search through his pockets showed him that he'd lost his key to the front door, a rare and worrying event indeed. Too tired, physically and emotionally, Artemis took to sitting in front of the door and staring pitifully up at the camera which was cleverly hidden amongst the artistic doorjamb. He much resembled a lost kitten, begging for a scrap of food at the door of an imposing and unfortunately empty household.

Finally, the door opened and one of the servants popped her head out.

"_Sir!" _she exclaimed, looking very befuddled. "What happened, sir? You're covered in-"

Artemis's felt a sudden dip in his patience. "Just let me in," he snapped, standing shakily. He fell almost immediately, and was saved from introducing his face to the floor only by the girl's swiftness in catching him.

"Maser Fowl, I think it'd be best if you were to lay down-"

"No, not now," Artemis said bitingly. "Are you aware of my father's whereabouts?"

The girl, now leading him into the house, shook her head vigorously. "I wash dishes, sir, I don't normally see you or your family..." By this point, Artemis was had pushed himself out of her arms and was attempting to walk by himself. He heard her cry out shrilly as he fell flat on his face. "_Sir!"_

"Jolene, what are you- Artemis?" Artemis was thrilled to hear a familiar voice, and one he could trust to know the general whereabouts of his father. Juliet walked briskly to Jolene-the-servant-girl, and Artemis-flat-on-his-face. Obviously she'd been playing with Myles and Beckett all day – again – for she merely wore a grass-stained sweatshirt and jeans. "Jolene, go home. I'll take care of our mad scientist here," Juliet told Jolene, who was more that relieved to be excused to her home.

When she'd left, Juliet heaved Artemis over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "If I may ask, Arty boy," she began, "what the _Hell _happened to you? Where's Angeline?"

"I need to see father," Artemis said, in a flat tone which brooked no argument.

**The Fowl's Library**

The Fowl library was gargantuan, as the majority of Artemis Sr.'s predecessors had valued intellect and knowledge almost as much as gold. Rows upon rows of books of every kind – from the greatest and most well-known works of fiction, to the smallest, most obscure book about the history of dentistry.

It was not just magnificent in its contents, but also in it's physical appearance. The floor was covered with soft, elaborate carpet. Countless chairs, with plush pillows and clever design, were scattered seemingly randomly, but actually strategically, around the library. Tall, stained-glass windows depicting the Fowl's legacy allowed light to spill into the room gracefully.

And, central in the library, was a large mahogany desk that curved subtly. Atop it was a computer, stacks upon stacks of books, countless papers, and several fine pens of many sorts. And sitting at that long, cluttered desk, was Artemis Fowl Sr., fake leg propped up against his chair.

Artemis Sr. took a thirty-second break from skimming through long, dry paragraphs about peach farming to smile at a photo of his family he kept on the desk. His beautiful wife, Angeline, with her arm slung over his shoulder. On her lap, Myles, and on his, Beckett. Behind them, with a pale and slender hand on either of his parent's shoulders, stood Artemis the second, a small but genuine smile on his lips. Artemis Sr. recalled Angeline having to coax him into standing for the photograph. She'd tried bribery and threats, but Artemis had finally caved when she'd simply said 'please'.

Artemis Sr. was yanked roughly from his reminiscing when the door to the library banged open and hurried, heavy footsteps came trotting towards him. Artemis Sr. quickly hid evidence of his interest in peach farming, just in time for Juliet to pop into the central area of the elegant and magnificent library. Artemis Sr. jumped at the sight of her, not being able to help the tiny yelp he gave. Of course, it was not Juliet's sudden appearance that shocked him.

It was his oldest son, Artemis, slung over her shoulder. Like a sack of potatoes, no less!

"Juliet!" said Artemis Sr. disapprovingly. "Can't you see I'm horribly busy here? And why are you carrying Artemis like that?" Juliet set Artemis down, but still had to hold his shoulders so he did not fall.

The sheer _state _of Artemis made Artemis Sr. want to retch.

Down the front of his shirt and trousers was what appeared to be the remnants of Artemis's own sick. His hands, along with a considerable portion of his sleeves, were covered with dried blood. Blood dried long enough that it was already dark and hardened, even starting to flake in parts. Artemis's limbs weren't the only body part covered in bodily fluids – also his head was drenched in blood. The elbows and knees of Artemis's suit were grass-stained, a thing Artemis Sr. only really saw on his younger sons.

"By Jove, Artemis, what the _devil _happened to you?" demanded Artemis Sr. as he rose quickly from his seat. "What- your mother, is she alright? What happened?"

Artemis was guided over to Artemis Sr.'s old seat, where Juliet let him sit before leaving the two in private.

"It's very strange, Father," Artemis said sadly. "And also very... tragic."

Artemis Sr. gulped, his adams apple bobbing as he did so. "Artemis... answer me."

Artemis heaved a massive sigh, resting his face in one hand and closing his eyes. He was very still for a while, and Artemis Sr. was genuinely afraid he'd fallen asleep. "As you know, Mother and I went on a walk earlier today," Artemis began. "It was all well and good, until we reached the edge of our property. With the trees?" Artemis Sr. nodded. "Well, Mother was shot by a sniper – an affiliate or admirer of Jon Spiro's, I believe."

"_What?" _exclaimed Artemis Sr., shrilly.

Artemis continued, ignoring his father's distress. "I failed to do anything about the wound. I'm afraid Mother is... deceased." If Artemis Sr. had ever bothered getting to know his son in the past, instead of just recently making an effort, he would have recognized Artemis's 'business' tone. Artemis was keeping a cool head because he had to, in order to set affairs in order so he could... _deal with _Angeline's murderer. However, from Artemis Sr.'s perspective, his son seemed to have a cold heart and very little regard for the loss of his mother.

"Afterwords," continued Artemis, after letting his father absorb the information, "he tried to kill me as well. Obviously, he failed. Father-" Artemis's tone took on a slightly concerned edge, "- the marksman managed to shoot me. Right in the middle of the forehead. I could _feel _the bullet in my brain. Yet I survived. Have you ever heard of anything like this before?"

It was with these words that Artemis Sr. felt as if a weight had been lifted. Of course! This was an elaborate prank! Angeline and Artemis had probably been planning it all morning. A little family bonding, was all. How could he believe that Angeline was dead?

"Maybe," said Artemis Sr., remorsefully, as to play along with the joke for a moment. "I think it was... yes, I've seen something like this before." Artemis looked hopeful. "It was in, I think... _Kill Bill." _The father laughed heartily, while Artemis stared blankly at him for a moment.

When Artemis Sr. got himself under control, Artemis spoke with an urgency, yet with the slightest edge of disdain, "Father, I am not joking. I _saw_ Mother's death. It happened right beside me, Father. And I _was_ shot – _right here." _He jabbed his index finger at his forehead.

It dawned on Artemis Sr. that Artemis actually believed this. He felt saddened.

There was a long and odious history of mental illness in the Fowl family. Artemis Sr.'s grandfather, Sylvester Fowl the third, had lived with multiple personality disorder all his life – not that Artemis Sr. had ever complained. It _was_ how Sylvester the third and his wife wound up married. He had just hoped that mental illness would have skipped over Artemis and the twins, so to speak. It seemed he was disappointed.

"I see, Artemis, I see," he said to his son, as he soothingly patted him on the shoulder. "I'm sure it was very scary. Now, why don't you take a nice bath, and I'll sort this out." To a young child, that was something he could say 'no' to. But Artemis was no child, and he heard his father's tone. It wasn't a question.

_He thinks I'm insane, _Artemis thought bleakly as Juliet was called back into the library and given orders to see to it that Artemis got a bath. _I'm sorry, Father. My insanity has come and gone – I'm afraid this is actually happening._

Juliet took Artemis away, leaving Artemis Sr. alone in the library.

The oldest living Fowl took a seat at the desk, and pulled up an address book. He flipped through the pages until he found the name he was looking for. Artemis Sr. picked pulled his cellphone out of his breast pocket, flipped it open, and dialed a number. He waited while it rang, and finally...

"Hello, Dr. Poe. This is Artemis Fowl the first. Did I wake you? … I see, I see. No harm done, then? … Wonderful. Well, you see, it's about Artemis... No, he hasn't bitten anyone. Why is that a concern-? Oh, don't let me lose my train of though, Dr. Poe. I fear Artemis may have, ah, _gone loopy, _so to speak..."

**The Fowl's Library**

Two hours later, Artemis found himself – now bathed and in violet, silky pajamas – sat down in one of the far corners of the library. Across from him, in one of the many lovely chairs, was Dr. Poe, wearing a hand-knit sweater and khakis, a clipboard on his knee and one clammy hand clenching a pen.

"Well, aren't we thrilled to be with each other again?" smiled Dr. Poe.

"Dazzled," Artemis said, deadpan.

Dr. Poe's smile went rather fixed, and he jotted something down. "Sincere as you've always been, Artemis. So, your good father tells me you've been shot in the head. How's that feel?" Dr. Poe asked. Artemis groaned inwardly. _Why _would his 'good' father force him to deal with this blundering fool at a time so very dire? Angeline's body was probably still rotting down at the edge of the property. They needed to get her, and find the assassin. Not sit around talking about feelings like a bunch of teenaged girls!

"It feels positively dandy," Artemis drawled. "Well, that should wrap things up. My, Dr. Poe, it is getting _very _dark out. Perhaps there's a Mrs. Poe you should be getting back to?" Artemis began to rise, but Dr. Poe pushed his shoulder, shoving Artemis back into the chair.

"No, we're not done here. And no, there isn't, my wife is in Majorca with her sister, Yvonne," said Dr. Poe. "Now could you _please _explain the whole, oh, you know, _shot in the head _business?"

"Well, _that's _insensitive. How did you ever come to be paid to make people feel better?" Artemis asked. Rhetorically, of course – he really didn't care about how Poe got his job, but he had long since fallen into the habit of crawling under the old therapist's skin.

"What can I say, Artemis? You're just special," said Poe with a forced and fixed grin.

They could have gone back and forth for hours, which would have inevitably ended in more therapy being required for both of them. But luckily, they were interrupted by Juliet, who'd seemingly just crawled out of the shadows. She was in her own pajamas – striped pants and an over-sized 'Jade Princess' t-shirt – and munching on a bar of chocolate. "Hey," she said. "Some guy's here to help you out, Poe. Dr. Schlippe, I think he said his name was. He's outside. Should I let him in?"

Dr. Poe looked positively enraged that anyone would dare think he, _the _Poe, who had been dealing with Artemis for years, needed help dealing with Artemis now. He was just saying to tell Dr. Schlippe to stick it where the sun doesn't shine, when Artemis interrupted. "Bring him in, Juliet," Artemis aid calmly. Anyone would be better than Poe. Even if he wasn't any less irritating, Dr. Schlippe _must _be at least easier to drive mad. Juliet popped off and returned a moment later – a moment which consisted of Poe grinding his teeth together and staring angrily at Artemis – with a tall man in a black suit.

He stood almost as high as Butler, but was not nearly as muscular. His shoulders were narrow, and he was one of the skinniest men Artemis had ever seen. Schlippe was old – horribly so, with sagging skin and huge bags under his eyes. His hair was gray, and what little of it he had was brushed back. A tiny pair of spectacles was perched on his beak-like nose. He didn't smile at Artemis when he peered at him, and he hadn't a clipboard or pen anywhere on his person.

"Go away," he said flatly, to Dr. Poe. Poe stared at him, shocked by the bluntness he'd learned only to expect from his wife and Artemis.

"Excuse me?" Dr. Poe prompted, offended.

Dr. Schlippe turned his head to Dr. Poe, glaring just slightly at him. "Go away," he repeated. "I needn't a baboon such as yourself getting in my way. I am here to speak to the young Master Fowl, so, go away." Dr. Poe stared defiantly at Dr. Schlippe, but the old man's glare intensified, and Dr. Poe was suddenly cowed.

"Very well," he grumbled, tucking his clipboard and pen under his arm and walking briskly from the library. "I'll just wait outside, than..." Artemis peered, amused, at Dr. Schlippe. The aforementioned doctor took a seat in Dr. Poe's old chair, crossing his legs and clasping his hands in his lap.

"You were shot in the head." Artemis, in the past few hours, had grown used to those words being phrased as a skeptical question. Schlippe phrased it as a statement. But not just any statement, like 'the pie is good' or 'I enjoy this weather'. A statement of fact – hard, true, undeniable fact. 'The volcano is active', or 'the car crashed into the wall'. Artemis's interest in Dr. Schlippe spiked.

"I was," said Artemis with a small nod.

"You were," said Schlippe, mimicking the gesture. "By all means, you should be as dead as the man who built this manor, back when it was a grand castle. You should be very, very dead, just like dear old mum." The hairs on the back of Artemis's neck were beginning to stand on end. At first, Schlippe was amusing. Now, well, he was starting to unnerve Artemis... "But you're not dead, are you? You're here, you're being spoken to. By me! So did you hallucinate the whole thing? What happened, hm?" Rhetorical questions. Artemis hated being asked rhetorical questions.

"I am here to inform you that you are as sane as you were this morning, Artemis Fowl," said Schlippe. "But you are far more confused than you were at breakfast time. I can fix that, you know. My... boss, per se, wishes to speak to you. He can give you the answers to all the questions you have. All the ones that matter, anyway."

Artemis stared skeptically at Schlippe. "And how can I trust you?" Artemis asked. Obviously, Schlippe was not here to help Poe, as he said he was. So how could Artemis trust him to tell the truth now?

Schlippe gave a tiny, almost unnoticeable, smile. "Trust is not an issue here, Artemis Fowl. It all comes down to whether or not you want to know what's going on." Schlippe rose. "I can lead you to your answers, Artemis Fowl. If you will only follow." With that, tall, elderly Dr. Schlippe strode away. Briskly, but not so brisk that Artemis would have problems catching up.

Artemis watched him walk a few paces. On the one hand, this could all just lead to his inevitable demise. On the other, he already survived a bullet to the brain. And besides – he _did _want to know what was going on.

Artemis pulled himself out of the chair, and with a sudden surge of energy, trotted hurriedly after Schlippe, and out of the library.

**Grimmauld Place**

Harry was confused.

What in Merlin's name was hitting him in the face?

It wasn't hitting with a whole lot of force – but enough to be irritating. He was trying to sleep, goddammit. Was Kreature hitting him? What did that old House Elf want at this insane hour? With much effort, Harry managed two very unintelligent, very slurred words that came out as one. "Geroff," he grunted, groggily and with an edge of anger.

Was someone calling his name? Merlin's pants, why couldn't they let him-?

"_Harry!" _Harry recognized the voice as Hermione's, and was just going to tell her to bug off when he was hit in the face again. Not one of those silly, 'is he still alive' slaps, too. A full-on, wake-up-or-you'll-regret-it slap, which was typically reserved to be used by pimps and abusive girlfriends only.

It hurt. Almost as much as Auror training. Harry was roughly yanked out of his much-needed sleep, into the realm of tiring obligation and guilt. Oh, how he hated the world of the aware.

"Hermione," grunted Harry, as his eyes adjusted as much as they could without his glasses. He could see two blurry figures, which he decided were Ron and Hermione. Ron by the flaming orange blob, and Hermione by the fact that he'd just been slapped in the face. "What was that for?"

"Harry, mate, you alright?" asked Ron. The orange blob leaned in and Harry felt something being shoved ungracefully onto his face. A moment later, he could see clearly.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Why? I was just asleep," muttered Harry, pulling himself into an upright position. He winced. Every joint in his body throbbed in pain. Merlin, that Auror training was tough. Even a hot bath and a warm bed couldn't- "Wait a moment, why am I not in my bed?" asked Harry, a bit louder than he meant. Sure enough, he was not in his bed. He was laying in an awkward position in front of his poor, abused desk, on the floor, with no blanket or pillow. Harry frowned, Ron and Hermione's variations of 'I don't know, mate' going in one ear and out the other.

Slowly, bits and pieces of the earlier events fell into place. Harry shot upright, to his feet, and nearly fell with the sudden altitude. "Ron, Hermione, I was attacked," Harry said. His two friends stood as well, not nearly as fast but with just as much urgency. "An old Dark Arts-enthusiast. Voldemort fanboy, you see?"

Ron looked both scared and awed. "Is that why you were on the floor? He didn't get away, did he?"

"He got away," sighed Harry.

"An old Death Eater beat you in a duel, Harry? Right after Auror training?" Hermione said patronizingly, hands on her hips. Harry would normally have felt cowed or peeved at Hermione's disapproval, but today was different, for one reason only.

"Herm, he used the Killing Curse on me," Harry said. "And I lived. _A third time."_

Hermione's odd expression – a sort of sneer mixed with a frown of disbelief – faded with satisfying quickness. Now she seemed, for lack of a better way to be said, borderline neurotic with worry. "A third time, Harry? You're sure he didn't just, you know, cast a spell that sounded like the Killing Curse?" Hermione wondered.

"Big flash of green light, incantation that sounds hilariously like 'abracadabra'?" Harry said with a skeptic eyebrow cocked. "Yeah, he was definitely just puling my leg. Great joke, Wallis! Well, I'll have to catch up with him later, prank him back by pretending to cut his leg off. Hm? How's that sound?"

Hermione blushed deeply. "I get it, Harry."

Ron piped up suddenly. "What about how Unforgivable Curses are cast? Don't you have to really, really mean it?" Ron suggested. Both Hermione and Harry regarded Ron with mixed feelings – appreciation, for the good suggestion, and concern, again for the good suggestion. Ron's ears went red when his friends didn't immediately respond. "I mean, what if he did it wrong and just knocked Harry out, yeah? This – Wallis, right? - this Wallis might not really be a killer, at the heart of it all."

Hermione punched Ron in the shoulder. Playfully, but still painfully – judging by the way he winced. "Brilliant, Ronald! So Wallis was just a pansy, really." She smiled at her friends, but Harry was not so pleased with Ron's explanation.

"Or, something really weird is going on," Harry said flatly. "Like, I've developed superpowers or an immunity to the Killing Curse – goodness knows I've been hit with it plenty..." Now it was Ron's turn to playfully, but painfully, punch Harry.

"Do you _want _something crazy going on, mate?" demanded Ron loudly. "This Wallis guy just cast it wrong, is all-"

"No, Ron," snapped Harry. "I fought Wallis. Sure, he was a bit of a pansy, but he was really convinced he had to kill me. And I think he really wanted to." _Despite thinking we'd be good friends, of course. But that's a bit creepy, _he added silently. "Besides," Harry continued, "if he wasn't a killer at heart, why would he try to take me on alone? Why not find an ex-Death Eater buddy of his to do it for him?"

"So you honestly think we may have a killing, Dark Arts-enthusiast on our hands?" Hermione asked warily. Harry simply nodded in confirmation.

"And I doubt he'll be done with me, especially if I go parading around tomorrow – alive, mind you. He'll try and kill me again, and he'll probably go after you two, and maybe your families, and then he'll go crazy and go after other people – Luna, Neville, heck, probably even Malfoy! Merlin, he's going to kill everyone..." As Harry spoke, his voice got higher and higher, on the verge of hysteria, and be became more and more panicked. He wasn't just saying these things to scare Ron and Hermione – he genuinely believed Wallis Elroy was going to become some kind of... well, some kind of Dark Lord!

He voiced this new worry to Ron and Hermione. "That will never happen, Harry. Voldemort just died; _No one_ is ready for a new Dark Lord yet-" Hermione was jut off by Harry's playful, yet painful, punch to the shoulder.

"_Wake up, _Hermione! These people are _insane. _Voldemort's gone – he's dead, he's little more than the burnt remains of fleshy pulp, for Merlin's sake! If Wallis goes mad, he's going to realize he's got the ability to, well, to _dictate. _He said himself that he doesn't want wizarding kind to die in the arms of Muggles. Wallis, this guy, he's going to make a tackle at power. He really believes in this stuff, and people will chop their own legs off for things they really believe in. _Can't you see?" _Harry finished. His chest was heaving, as he barely stopped to breath through his entire little monologue.

Hermione heaved a sigh, and cast her eyes down to the floor. "We'll spend the day in Sirius's – er – your library and see what we can find. Sirius left you tons of books on Dark Arts. I'm sure we can find... something, I guess, that can explain why you're still alive," she said reluctantly. "If Wallis does turn out to be a real threat, we'll gather up the Order and the DA, okay?"

"Okay," Harry said curtly.

**Grimmauld Place's Library**

Sirius did leave Harry a lot of books on the Dark Arts. Harry had been in the gloomy, dark, musty room before – but only for a moment. He never realized how _large _it was. Nor how broad the subject of the Dark Arts really was, apparently. Hundreds of books – countless leather-bound volumes with titles like _A Dozen Need-to-Know Poisons _and _A Brief History of Influential Bloodlines. _Stacks upon stacks of tomes with no titles, but instead odd glyphs and symbols on the cover. There were so many books in Sirius's old library, that the shelves could not hold them all. They spilled onto the floor and were stacked on small tables and stiff chairs. They lined the walls, and where there weren't any books, was all the room in there to walk.

After staring, intimidated and even a little disbelieving, at the sheer amount of books in the room, the trio set off to do research. They hadn't a clue where to begin, so Harry just picked up a random, title-less, glyph-marked text and began reading. Or he would have. It was written in some weird language – Egyptian, it looked, but according to Ron, not quite. He simply discarded it after making a halfhearted comment about _maybe _decoding it later.

Hermione cleared a chair off and began skimming through titles relating to curses and spells in general (_Five Hundred Ways to Hex, A Beginners Guide to Torture, _and _Advanced Curses)_, but had to stop every few minutes to have a short fit of coughing. The books were very dusty. Harry doubted they'd been touched for decades before now.

Ron went around the library just looking at books that looked a bit queerer than the others. A green one which was a perfect oval, instead of a rectangle. A book clamped shut with a few belts. A book made of pale leather, which was splattered with something that looked disturbingly like blood. Of course, Ron's library adventure was cut short when he'd found a small house spider resting between two stacks. With Hermione's reluctantly given permission, Ron went to explore the rest of the house for out-of-the-ordinary things that might help them.

_It might have helped if Mrs. Weasley hadn't thrown so much stuff away years ago, _Harry thought ruefully as Ron scuttled off to perform his assigned task. _Though, I suppose there's no helping that now._

So, with a heavy heart, they searched. Hours past – or minutes. It was hard to tell time. From the ticking of clockwork somewhere in the bowels of the library, Harry could tell that there was a timepieces lurking about. Alas, but the rhythmic _tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock _did little to let him know just when it was acceptable to take a snack break.

Harry sighed deeply, instantly regretting it as he inhaled a considerable amount of dust, as he slammed another title-less tome closed. He had a short fit of coughing, which luckily passed just as Hermione approached him. She held a stack of books in her arms, which she uncharacteristically dumped on Harry's pile of books. "This is ridiculous, Harry," Hermione said. "We've been here for-" She checked her wristwatch with a frown, "-nearly four hours - it's nearly daytime! - and we haven't found a scrap of information which can be classified as 'useful'. Or even 'interesting'!"

"The most interesting thing I've found was some book written in an Egyptian-like language," Harry sighed.

"Probably Ancient Runes," Hermione said dismissively. "I've found one of those. It was a cookbook, can you believe? A cookbook! In here!"

"Any good recipes?" Harry asked. His passion from earlier had long since been squashed into the dirt, and in hindsight, he didn't think what he's spewed at his friends seemed plausible. Now he was just bored.

Hermione, it seemed, was also bored. "Well, I found one good one. Triple-chocolate cake. It's just a chocolate cake, but it has this special frosting and chocolate sauce you pour over it, and it's served with chocolate ice cream and- Hey, Harry, do you wanna bake later? It's probably poisonous, but it sounds so good right now..."

Harry was ready and willing to respond positively, with much enthusiasm. But his exclamation of joyous, chocolatey goodness never made it out of his insides. For at that moment, Ron came running into the library with his wand drawn.

He looked around wildly for a moment before his gaze settled on his two friends.

"Harry! Hermione!" Ron gasped, leaping over stacks of old books to get to them.

"What is it, Ron?" asked Hermione, concerned. The triple-chocolate cake was now little more than a memory, to both hers and Harry's internal agony.

"Somebody's at the door," Ron said hurriedly. "He's really weird – like all short and tubby and he's in a suit. I think he might be a Muggle."

Hermione suddenly became very cross. "Just a Muggle, Ron? _Really? _First spiders and now this, honestly. Ask him what he wants – if it gets really out of hand, just come get me-"

Ron interrupted. His voice was high, on the verge of hysteria, and almost whiny. "But, _Hermione. _He says he needs to see Harry, and it might be that Wallis guy Harry mentioned, so I thought-"

That was all he had to say. Harry snapped back into life, passion and concern from a few hours earlier flooding back into every cell of his body. He fought through the books with a purpose, tumbling over piles and earning himself a rather noticeable bruise on the left half of his forehead. Ron and Hermione, loyal as they ever were, followed with just as much speed and determination. Harry sped through the hallway and as good as fell down the steps. The sound roused the portrait of Sirius's mother, and Harry – with the help of the rest of the trio – quickly shushed her cries of, "_MUD-BLOODS! IN MY HOUSE! BLOOD-TRAITORS!" _and other such things to that effect.

The three stood at the door, all fighting to look through the peep-hole. After a short and angry battle, Harry won. It was hard to see through the peep-hole with his glasses, but he managed.

Outside stood a man. He was by no means Wallis Elroy. Too chubby, too pale. He was bald, with a round face and watery hazel eyes. He wore a black suit and tie. Harry could see he had his hands stuffed in his trouser pockets.

He shouldn't have seemed quite so scary, Harry knew, but there was something about the way he stared at the door. There was a fiery intensity in those should-be meek eyes that it made Harry feel puny, insignificant. The little man – for he was quite short – stared at the door unblinkingly. Harry felt awful. Not for himself, or for the little man, but for the door. Why, if Harry had ever been stared at like that, he didn't think he'd ever recover.

"Well?" urged Ron nervously. "What's he doing, Harry?"

"Nothing," Harry answered. "He's just... staring at the door." He wondered, in the back of his mind, how the door had not yet caught fire under that unsettling, unflinching gaze. Harry stared back at him for a while. "Ready your wands," he ordered. "I'm opening the door."

Ron and Hermione did as they were instructed. Palms sweating, wand in hand, Harry turned the doorknob...

The little man looked even shorter face-to-face, as opposed to through the peep-hole. His face broke into a wide, pleasant smile that would make Harry's insides feel sparkly on a normal day, but today it just made him feel sick. "Hello again, Mr. Weasley," greeted the little man. He shook Ron's hand, not commenting on the fact that all three were armed, or perhaps just choosing not to notice. He turned his attention to Harry and Hermione. "You must be the lovely Ms. Granger. Hello. And you – you are Mr. Potter. Yes, I've come to see you." He shook their hands.

"Yes, er, hello," Harry said uneasily. His hand was warm, but for some reason, the little man's touch sent cold pulsing through his body. He was... disgusted by this man. For some reason, Harry felt as if this man was never meant to be. He was a freak of nature, in his own horribly subtle way...

"Where are my manners, eh?" chuckled the little man. "My name is Leopold, Mr. Potter. Obviously, I already know _your _name, you being famous and all." Harry could only nod curtly. Leopold continued without missing a beat, "Anyway, Mr. Potter, you and I have business." His kindly attitude was suddenly gone, replaced by civil respect yet with an edge of resentful obligation.

Harry felt his stomach churn. "What sort of... business, Leopold?" Harry asked warily. Leopold shrugged, a tiny smile playing on his lips as a ray of his former attitude shone through.

"Important business, Mr. Potter. My boss, shall we say, has something he _desperately _needs to address, and your audience is required," Leopold said. "So, if I shall escort you...?"

Ron and Hermione could remain silent no longer. "Now wait a minute!" Hermione exclaimed. "You can't just _walk off _with Harry! How will we know he's safe?"

"Where he goes, we go," Ron said firmly.

Harry was touched by their unwavering loyalty. How lucky was he, to have such devoted companions? Their show of friendship sparked something in Harry. Who was this Leopold, anyway? Why did he think he could just prance onto his doorstep and take Harry away, with Ron and Hermione there to back him up? Leopold was nothing, and the bond Harry had with his friends was everything.

Apparently Leopold didn't care, though, or simply chose not to acknowledge the display of unwavering love and loyalty. The little man heaved a massive sigh, and looked sadly upon the trio. "You resist me." It wasn't a question. And frankly, that scared Harry more than it should have. The three hesitantly nodded in confirmation, though none was needed. A big smile broke onto Leopold's face and he rocked back and forth a bit. Harry was genuinely concerned for Leopold's sanity.

A small giggle emitted from Leopold. The sound of it send shivers down Harry's spine. The small giggle morphed into a light chuckle, then to open laughter. Finally, loud, almost painful-sounding barks of sheer laughter were being tossed at the Golden Trio's door. Leopold threw his head back and laughed. It was an awful, cold sound, though to anyone farther away than Harry, Ron, and Hermione were, it'd sound happy and genuine. Finally, after eleven long, painstaking seconds, Leopold got himself under control.

"Ah, pity that," he said with a smile. "But I understand."

They all wished dearly that Leopold would just turn around and walk away after that. But he certainly did not.

Instead of trying to persuade them, like a normal person, Leopold just stood there, unblinking, and let his mouth fall open. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stared at him, thoroughly confused. Slowly, Leopold pulled his chubby hands out of his pockets and placed them on his jaw. With one swift movement and a sickening sound, he dislocated it.

They gasped and jumped back a few feet. Leopold's mouth opened impossibly wide, and they noticed how eerily dark it was in his mouth. They saw no tongue, or teeth, or uvula, or even gums. Just blackness, as if Leopold's mouth contained a wormhole of some sort.

They didn't think to do anything besides stand and stare until an inky, gloppy sort of _arm_ emerged from the depths of his mouth. It looked wrong, two-dimensional, almost. It was, indeed, an arm, and at the end, an over sized hand. They held up their wands, but before any incantations had time to dance off their tongues, the arm swooped down and grabbed Harry. It held him in one fist, expanding and merging with itself so Harry had no hope of breaking its grip.

"Let me go!" cried Harry, going along with Ron and Hermione's horrified cries of 'let him go'. But Leopold obviously had no intention of doing so. With one swift, deft jerk of his head, the arm snapped back into his mouth, taking Harry with it. He clamped his face shut, and, to Ron and Hermione's horror, gulped loudly.

Leopold gave a small burp. "Oh my!" he said with a soft chuckle. "Well, I think that concludes our business here." Leopold stuffed his hands back in his pockets, and nodded to Ron and Hermione. "Mr. Weasley. Ms. Granger."

And with that, Leopold turned on his heel and trotted down the steps, across the street, and out of sight.

And they stared.


	2. The Contract, The Order Reborn

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Harry Potter or Artemis Fowl. Harry Potter is property of J.K. Rowling. Artemis Fowl is property of Eoin Colfer. I make no profit off this fan fiction, nor do I claim to hold rights to either Harry Potter or Artemis Fowl. No copyright infringement is intended, please support the official release.

**In The Unlikely Event of Having Defied Death**

**Chapter Two**

**Grimmauld Place**

To the rest of the world, the row of shoddy homes that was Grimmauld Place was perfectly ordinary. Peaceful. For most, it was. The couple in number five were having a heated argument about which drapes to buy – the man of the house claiming they should buy yellow ones to brighten the mood, and his boyfriend insisting they should intensify the mood, as to scare off children and men with beards and hats. In number seven, the old lady was teaching her grandson how to knit. Or at least she thought she was. The young man who she was forcing knitting lessons upon was actually a home intruder, and she didn't even have a grandson. But she _did _have dementia, so there's that.

But, in number twelve, all Hell was breaking loose.

"There's no question, Hermione! We _have _to get the Order – and Dumbledore's Army!" Ron insisted loudly as he paced up and down the hall. He would have spoken in a horrified whisper, but the portrait of Sirius's mum was screaming about blood-statuses again and Ron felt the need to be heard.

"I know, Ron," sighed Hermione, just as loud as Ron. She stopped to smack the portrait violently. "Shut _up!" _She turned her attention back to the Golden Trio's morale support, speaking with a soft kind of worry that told Ron she was extremely dismayed. "We can round up everyone before tomorrow morning. If we're quick, we can have a meeting by tonight. Harry's been swallowed so... so..."

She trailed off, staring into space. Ron approached her and pulled her into a warm hug. "We'll find Harry," Hermione said suddenly. "Then we can take care of these abductors of his and get things back to normal."

Ron sniffed indignantly. "Normal, Herm? Since when has anything about our lives been _normal, _especially where Harry's involved?" Ron asked rhetorically. Despite herself, Hermione smiled. True, nothing was ever entirely routine where Harry Potter was concerned. He was Harry freakin' Potter!

**Somewhere**

One moment, warm, cozy blackness. He could – very vaguely – make out slightly humanoid shapes. It was hard to tell. They were all too _fuzzy. _The darkness and the warmth should have been comforting, like being cradled in the arms of ones mother, as a mere infant, still small and easy to warm against a woman's bosom.

But it was not like that at all. He writhed in the dark. He couldn't breathe – nor think, nor swallow, nor twitch, nor scream. All he could do was wiggle himself as a whole, very slightly. Like a worm, almost. Or a fish out of water.

But it was only for a moment. One long, yet fleeting, awful moment filled with complete dark and stillness.

Not a moment later, he, Harry, was on a plush sofa, in the open air.

He took large, involuntary gasps of air, savoring the sharp drop in temperature. It took a few second for Harry's brain to properly register his surroundings. He gazed at the room, taking in every detail.

It was a circular room, with creamy white wallpaper and squishy carpet the match. Furniture of the same shade dotted the room. Central was a dark wood coffee table, polished to a stellar gleam but blemished by the faintest of rings. From mugs and glasses left unattended and sweating, doubtlessly. Overall, the place was rather opulent. Posh, if you will. While sucking in every detail of the environment, Harry spotted Leopold.

The little man stood by a door, the same dark brown as the coffee table, with his head bowed. His hands were clasped in front of him. Harry thought he looked much like he was awaiting an execution.

"Hey," Harry said, his tone a bit harsher than he'd meant. Leopold didn't acknowledge Harry's word of greeting. He tried again. "_Hey, _Leopold. Where am I?"

Nothing.

"You don't plan on telling me anything?" Harry continued. When Leopold continued to remain silent and unresponsive, Harry sat back in the squishy sofa with a sigh of frustration. "Yeah, that's what I thought." He folded his arms and stared at the domed ceiling. Somewhere, he hadn't a clue where, in the tiny room, a clock ticked. It did nothing to give Harry an idea of time passing, though. The atmosphere of this place... it was almost like time stood still for it, regardless of what any clock said.

It didn't take long for Harry to begin going stir-crazy.

He found himself standing up, pacing about the room. The atmosphere made it seem large, but when Harry walked around it seemed so tiny. Then he'd walk a few extra paces and find that it was actually _gargantuan._ But then he'd stop. And he'd find himself right beside the coffee table again.

The illusions and tricks being played on Harry's mind were making him queasy. Soon the effects were too much on his brain and stomach, and Harry had to sit down. He plopped down on the sofa and took several deep breaths.

"Leopold, why am I here?" Harry asked exasperatedly. The tiny man kept his face pointed at his feet, but Harry could have sworn he saw his eyes flicker towards the door. Obviously they were waiting for someone. But for whom? Or, Harry dared think, _what...?_

The door opened with a slight creak. The sound, not being from Harry, made the Boy-Who-Lived nearly leap out of his own skin. As it was, he jumped and _perhaps_ passed wind in shock, but soon he was still again.

There were two new inhabitants in the room. A tall man, who looked about as old as Dumbledore, and a far younger man. Probably even a bit younger than Harry. A boy. The boy in question was dreadfully pale, but not unhealthily so, and quite slender. He had black, swept-black hair and piercing, ice-blue eyes. If he had not been wearing silken purple pajamas, Harry may have thought he was a bit scary.

The old man gestured to an armchair opposite Harry, and the boy sat.

Harry stared at him, and the stranger didn't seem interested in staring back. Harry glared, as his overly-imaginative and twisted mind began to speculate about this odd human.

He didn't seem to bothered by his surroundings. He didn't seem to think the sight of Harry was at all queer. He hadn't been swallowed and coughed out by his, as Harry presumed, escort. Obviously he must know something Harry didn't about the situation, or else he'd look at least a bit on edge. Right?

So Harry felt he could only draw one logical conclusion. This boy, Harry assumed he was about sixteen, must be responsible for his abduction. As soon as the thought entered Harry's head, he – metaphorically – ran with it.

"Oi, silky," Harry said abruptly, the nickname coming to him almost as fluidly as an oft-used spell. The boy fixed an icy stare on him and raised on eyebrow. Harry was disturbingly reminded of Draco Malfoy.

"Yes?" he inquired flatly.

Harry cleared his throat. There were a few things he intended to say to this 'holier-than-thou', stick-up-the-ass, pajama wearing dingbat – "Where the Hell am I?" Harry asked loudly.

"It appears you are in a room," said silky delicately. The impression of Draco Malfoy fell apart and was instantly replaced with a much prettier version of Severus Snape. Harry felt his annoyance spike. No good, abducting, Dark Arts-enthusiast... Sure, Snape had turned out to be alright in the end, but Hary assumed Severus Snape was one of a kind.

Harry was ready and willing to give this stranger a piece of his mind when he was interrupted.

"It seems to me that you believe I am aware of what's going on," stated silky, folding his pale, delicate hands in his lap. "You would be sorrily mistaken to think so. I have as little an idea of our current predicament as you, though it pains me to admit it."

Silky here could have pulled on a Death Eater mask and started spurting Unforgivable Curses in the name of his lord, Lucifer, then proceeded to start humping a cardboard cut-out of Voldemort himself, and Harry doubted he would have been as angry. If he was lying, he thought Harry was stupid enough to believe him. If he was telling the truth, he simply thought Harry was stupid.

"I can vouch for that, Mister Potter," said the old man who had entered with ol' silky. "Master Fowl is in the same situation as you, except he left with me willingly."

Harry made a fist in his lap, gritting his teeth as his fingernails dug into his palms. He stared at this 'Fowl' with stark disdain, which he was frustrated to find Fowl wasn't at all intimidated by. He just continued to sit elegantly, eying his surroundings with idle curiosity. The sight of him made Harry's blood boil. Fowl just looked _far _too much like some high-ranking blood-purist with an unwavering loyalty to the Dark Arts, for Harry to even consider him a vaguely-tolerant human being.

Harry may have stared at him for ten second. Maybe hours, and if that was the case, he could have regarded him with such disgust for hours more. But soon enough the passive-aggressive and obviously-aggressive staring match came to an abrupt end when the door swung open once more.

The newcomer was not accompanied by suit-clad old man, as Harry and Fowl had been. He was alone. And Harry felt like the air had been smashed violently from his lungs when he saw him.

Tall, very tall. With a long silver beard and hair to match. He wore flowing, pastel-purple robes with little gold dragons embroidered upon the hems. His entry was punctuated by the clicking of heeled boots. He had a long, crooked nose, with half-moon spectacles balanced on the end. Behind them twinkled a pair of pale blue eyes that warmed Harry's soul, and gave him the distinct impression of being X-rayed.

Albus Dumbledore had just entered the room. Harry gave a loud scream, of both delight and horror, and leaped back off the sofa.

Fowl regarded Harry's antics with a small scorn, and then looked at Dumbledore with a lazy interest. Harry suspected Fowl was far more curious than he let on, but he also suspected that Fowl had no intention of letting anyone know that.

Dumbledore gave Harry an amused smile, the grandfatherly one he knew so very well and had missed for such a long time. The old wizard sat and took his sweet time getting comfortable. Clasping his hands in his lap, Dumbledore turned his head to Harry, still gaping and giddy (and more than a little confused), and heaved a sigh.

"Harry Potter," he said in greeting.

"Professor," Harry managed, his mouth opening and closing like the mouth of a fish. He wanted to ask him a million questions – How are you alive? Why are you here? Where have you been? Is it really you? - but he could not make his tongue move. It was heavy and unresponsive in his mouth.

Fowl had questions, too, it seemed, and wasn't too flabbergasted to ask them. "Forgive me for my lack of tact – Professor, I take it? - but it would please me greatly to know who you are, who this nitwit is, and why I'm here?"

The words tumbled out of Harry's mouth before he even realized he had control of his tongue again: "That's Albus Dumbledore!"

Dumbledore ignored Harry's eagerness, and addressed Fowl. "This is Harry Potter, my dear boy, an old friend of mine. He is in a very similar situation as you," Dumbledore said. He turned back to Harry. "Harry, I would like you to meet Artemis Fowl II. As I just said, the two of you are in the same pickle. I assume a knucklehead like yourself would jump to the conclusion that he's 'up to something'. I would ask you to abandon any such conjectures."

Harry was beginning to nod, when he got stuck on something.

Knucklehead?

Did Albus bloody Dumbledore, back from the grave, just call him a _knucklehead?_

"Mister Potter, I am sorry to disappoint you, but I am not who you think I am," 'Dumbledore' said. "I simply chose to use his face. Any other face, and I fear you'd have tipped the table over and run out the door screaming for reinforcements. My actual form would have, simply put, freaked you out."

Harry stared blankly at him.

Dark wizard, maybe? If this was not Dumbledore, that was definitely a possibility. Perhaps Dumbledore had a twin brother he'd failed to mention before dying? There was Aberforth and Ariana, so maybe there was, what, an Adonis Dumbledore as well?

"Allow me to introduce myself, Potter, Fowl – I am, as known by mortals, the Death itself," said, as Harry now knew, Death. "Now, the reason I'm wearing your old Professor's face, Mister Potter, is because it's one you know and trust. If I waltzed in here as, say, your parents, you'd have flipped out because you have no illusions about their deaths. Albus Dumbledore, however, you never really thought of as 'dead'. Not really.

"A new face wasn't necessary for Artemis, you see? He's not a spontaneous knucklehead."

"Thank you," Artemis Fowl II said politely.

"Excuse me?" Harry managed.

Both Death and Artemis ignored him.

"Good to know," said Artemis, taking the events in stride. "Now, as to why we're here...?"

Death waved Dumbledore's long, boney hand to silence him. "My bad, my bad. Allow me to explain. You and Harry Potter here have, in the simplest terms, gone done fucked up the natural order." Death's tone went noticeably irritable near the end of his sentence. "Everyone has an expiration date, boys. You're stamped with it the very moment you are conceived. Everyone dies at some point. But you, Harry Potter, have tiptoed over the line with your ridiculous heroics. Our favorite Dark Lord was supposed to kill you, but that didn't happen – now did it?"

Harry stared at Death incredulously, unresponsive. Expiration date? Voldemort was supposed to kill him? He died, well, the Horcrux inside him died, or did...? Thinking about it hurt his brain.

"And you, Artemis," Death continued, focusing his attention on Artemis, "you are simply too smart for your own good. Couldn't let go of your own damned life, and now you're cursed with it – forever."

"Cursed with life forever?" Artemis parroted, his tone and face unamused. Frankly, Harry was surprised how Artemis took the whole 'outliving your life' thing in stride. "I assume you are referring to something like immortality?"

Death nodded. "Essentially, yes. Your souls are bound to the earth forever, because you didn't die on the proper date. Everyone has a set day to die. You two nimrods have successfully skipped over yours, and defied death. That is a problem."

Artemis leaned back in his seat. "Immortality is a problem?"

Annoyance spiked in the pit of Harry's gut. "Living forever and watching everyone you love die, and the world crumble around you is a problem," Harry corrected Artemis. Was this guy the same kind of unfeeling madman Voldemort was, fixated on eternal life regardless of who died around him?

Apparently not. Harry's words had sunk beneath Artemis's skin, it seemed. The youth grimaced and Harry almost thought he saw something flash in his eyes. He couldn't tell what it was, though, for it was there and gone far too quickly.

"There is no way to regain mortality?" Artemis asked.

Death grinned a very un-Dumbledore-like grin. "As a matter of fact, my far-too-intelligent little friend, there is. My, ah, 'Higher-Ups' have this system. You two dimwits aren't the only poor souls to outlive their due-dates. In fact, there have been countless over the course of the last few thousand years. There once was the fella – Jesus, I think his name was – I think he was the first poor sucker to trick me. But I digress," rambled Death. He snapped his fingers and a thick roll of parchment appeared in his hand.

He handed it to Artemis. Despite Harry's instinctive dislike for the boy in the silken pajamas, he found himself behind Artemis's chair, eying the parchment as Artemis unrolled it.

"_In the unlikely event of having defied Death, I, Artemis Fowl II and I, Harry Potter, do solemnly swear to embark on a mission to collect the three Deathly Hallows (The Cloak of Invisibility, The Elder Wand, The Resurrection Stone) under these conditions, in return for new individual death dates for I, Artemis Fowl II, and I, Harry Potter..."_

"A contract? Collecting the Deathly Hallows?" Harry said, having read enough. Artemis continued to read through it, unlike Harry.

"That's right, Potter," said Death. "My Higher-Ups developed that contract after some Egyptian snob survived a mummification and started those 'mummy curse' things. Never liked him, but that's besides the point."

"These are some... interesting terms and conditions, Death," Artemis said, a good portion through the contract already.

"You read the terms and conditions?" Death asked curiously.

"I always do. If I didn't, I would have sold my soul and all Skittles I ever come across to small, internet-based companies at least three times. You wouldn't believe some of the stuff they put in there," Artemis said absently. Harry wondered what was included in these terms and conditions.

There was an awkward silence, filled only with the slight tutting of Artemis as he skimmed through the contract. "Potter," he said suddenly, "can you function semi-independently?"

"Um, I guess," Harry said.

Artemis fixed him with an icy-blue stare. "You _guess, _or do you _know?"_

"I can, I can," Harry said quickly.

"Well I think that fixes this up nicely," Artemis said, laying the contract out on the coffee table. "I am perfectly willing to sign this. Potter, if you aren't a complete moron, I think you'll be able to handle it as well. Death, I take it you have a pen on you?"

With an almost sadistic smile, Death produced two pens in the same manner, and handed them to Harry and Artemis. Artemis signed his name at the bottom of the contract, and turned the parchment so that Harry could do the same. Despite that nearly every bone in his body told Harry that this was a stupid idea, he leaned over and wrote his name on the dotted line.

Just as he finished, the contracted disappeared in a puff of purple smoke.

Death sighed happily. "Very good, boys. Oh, Leopold, Schlippe! Take these boys back home, would you?"

**Grimmauld Place**

The atmosphere was thick of concern. Extra chairs and cushions had been dragged into the seating area. Despite the lovely smell of warm food the wafted into the room from the kitchen, no one's belly stirred, and no one was salivating. In fact, the smell only made the inhabitants of the packed room want to hurl.

Hermione pushed a stool to the center of the room and stood atop it. Ron sat nearby, twiddling his thumbs. It had taken a few hours to gather up all these familiar faces, but Hermione still felt like they had a deadline fast-approaching.

She studied the faces of the people in the room – there was the Weasleys, and Professor McGonagall. She spotted the Lovegoods and Neville, along with countless other from the Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore's Army. Even Draco Malfoy was there, though honestly, Hermione wasn't pleased to see him. Despite the Malfoys' recent redemption, their change of ways, she couldn't bring herself to trust that pale, pointed face. At least Lucius and Narcissa weren't there – Ron would have lost it then.

"My friends," she began, "my comrades. And... others. These past few months we've experienced actual peace for the first time in, well, a very long time." She took a shaky breath. "But Ron and I fear that, maybe, this period of peace is threatened. If you'll look around, you'll see a lot of old faces. Old friends, whose bonds were forged in the fires of war and necessity. If you'll look closer, you'll see that a key figure isn't here with us now."

Eyes shifted left and right. They all knew who was missing. Hermione and Ron had made sure they were informed in their summons. Despite that, almost everyone checked to make sure his face wasn't hidden amongst them.

"Harry Potter has been kidnapped," Hermione said, fighting to keep her voice steady. "He might have been killed, he might be held for ransom. But he's not here. He's been forcibly taken away from here. The day after being attacked by a Dark Magic-enthusiast, too."

There was murmur of concern. "This stinks of a Dark Lord," Luna Lovegood said, her tone and expression not quite _there. _Hermione gulped. Luna was right. It simply reeked of an uprising.

"I know," she said. "If there is a new Dark Lord coming into power, and if he or she does have a bone to pick with Harry, I think we all have a problem. We need Harry to fight this potential Dark Lord. That's what he does. That's – that's why he's here."

Suddenly, Hermione's sadness, the resignation, morphed into something else. _Anger. Outrage. Power.  
_Why was she _moping? _She was not a moper. No one in the room was, at their hearts. They weren't allowed to be sad. If they felt the damper of depression, they twisted it into anger and passion, and used it to fight.

Whoever this nutjob was, he or she thought that they could mess with Hermione's friends and get away with it. They were in for a very, very rude awakening.

"We'll get Harry back," Hermione said, her voice no longer teetering on the edge of tears. "I swear on my honor as a Gryffindor, we will all hunt this bastard down and make them pay dearly for this. This time next month, they _will _be rotting in Azkaban."

Her voice held a power. The inhabitants of the room nodded and mumbled in agreement. Soon they were saying, loudly and outwardly, they would fight to save Harry, to potentially save the magical race from a Dark Lord again. They grew up in fear of the Dark side, and matured in the midst of war and death. They knew how it worked, they knew how to fight, and they had the fire in their hearts to do it again.

"By Gryffindor's bravery!" shouted someone.

"By Ravenclaw's knowledge!" shouted another.

"By Slytherin's cunning!" That was Draco. Obviously still proud of his House.

"By Hufflepuff's loyalty!"

It was decided. This was a personal offense, and someone, somehow, had to pay for it. Led by Hermione, that would happen.

Half a dozen bottles of Firewhiskey and lots of hooting later, the Order of the Phoenix, reborn, was bent over the kitchen table, planning and prepping for the mission to find Harry, and stop whatever fiend that was behind his abduction...


End file.
